


A Sentinel Thursday Collection

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet, M/M, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: A little collation of drabbles and  ficlets from Sentinel Thursday ten plus years ago.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Kudos: 13





	1. Linen (142 undercover)

Jim lies in bed convincing himself that it’s okay to do this. Not the jacking off – hey, that’s normal. No, it’s this other thing, sensuality infiltrating sexuality, awareness that he can sense more than mere evidence at a crime scene. Soldiers, cops, can’t afford to start thinking about how everything *feels,* whatever that hippie hedonist in the downstairs room might say.

But what would the hedonist say if he were here, under the bedcovers with Jim, smooth skin rubbing against smooth skin resting against smooth linens amongst a world of scent? Jim thinks that one day they might say ‘Yes.’


	2. Princely (194 kiss)

Blair was no great shakes as a singer but the breathless, silly croon didn’t matter because Jim was mesmerised by the moves. Perhaps Blair’s quickness and sureness of body weren’t the same as grace, but as he gyrated across the wooden floors of the loft they were close enough. …“rule my world” and with a switch of hips and an about-face Blair discovered he had an audience.

Jim got a warm, wide, unabashed smile; the floors got an extra polish from skating sock-feet; and the lyrics got an essential fast-forward. “Just want your extra time and your – kiss.”

No problem.


	3. Waiting (88 tattoo)

I wonder how people expressed some things before the concept of literacy. ‘It’s written all over his face’. ‘I can read him like a book’. ‘It’s all Greek to me’, (and there’s a tangent there that I wish I had half a chance of exploring). He‘s leaning over me now, showing off the book of traditional Pacific tattoos (“so unutterably cool, pity that people exploit these things without understanding them”). I’m tattooed all over with his warmth, his scent, his breath and he hasn’t got a clue. Hey, Chief, want a new footnote for the diss?


	4. Who's Counting (200 - 200)

Brian Rafe was a sensitive new-age guy when he needed to be, but he wished that Nicole hadn't sent the roses to the PD. He got ribbed enough over his clothes.

"Six months since you two met," Brown fluted, ridiculously falsetto.

"Hey, H, you just wish that somebody would send you flowers." The stalwart defender of a man's right to gifts would have to be Sandburg. Not quite the poster boy for macho, Sandburg.

"Yearning for floral appreciation yourself, Chief?" That was Ellison, dry as dust, except for the rheum of hay-fever around his eyes.

"I like the idea of two hundred roses."

Ellison's eyebrows rose towards his hair. They had a longer journey than Brian's.

"Your admirer would need deep pockets. Two hundred herbal teabags sounds more likely."

"Fifty years subscription to Anthropology Quarterly sounds even better."

Ellison made a show of mental multiplication, before snapping his fingers. "That'd be - two hundred issues. You know, algae shakes only make life _seem_ longer."

"And what's the two hundred obsession?" Brian asked.

He'd assumed Sandburg was blush-proof, until he saw the man flush. Ellison smirked, and lightly smacked Sandburg's head.

"Ah, private joke, man."

It always was with those two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's such a private joke that not even the author knows. I just wanted to write something to the prompt.


	5. Living Dangerously (326 - thunder)

I won't pretend I've never enjoyed the hit you get doing something dangerous. It goes fifty/fifty between that sparkling, soaring conviction that you're invincible (or if you're not then today's as good a day as any to die) and wanting to puke out of sheer terror. There was a time when Sandburg's hard-core adrenaline addiction scared the shit out of me, but then he went cold turkey. All business, all the time, we're not playing now, Jim. Might have pissed me off, those times when I was worried that he was playing, but I miss them, sometimes.

Here he comes, with a face like thunder, and all around me the brave men and women of Cascade PD are battening down behind the shelter of their computer screens, their suddenly very important files, or the break room. All of those semi-admiring 'Ellison's got balls/guts/no brains' comments are gone with the wind. Brown brandishes his coffee cup as his symbol of the important thing he has do somewhere else. If he could click his heels together and say there's no place like home, he'd be gone.

I'm all alone on the plains of Tornado Alley and I look up and do Sandburg the courtesy of not pretending that I don't know he's heading towards me with F5 force. I'll let him chew me out, and then I'll make it up to him. Letting him know that watching him like this does it for me like the sweetest junkie crack? Something I'll save telling him for a time when he's better able to appreciate it, and we can take each other down the best way we know how.

Right now, whirlwind Sandburg? Hell of a ride.


End file.
